


like a flower bending in the breeze (you have a way with me)

by AwaitTheMorrow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidentally domestic, Birthday, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, Hand Feeding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwaitTheMorrow/pseuds/AwaitTheMorrow
Summary: The thing is that Stiles and Derek are kind of pretty good friends now. They watch baseball together, talk about their lives (and their friends) over take-out, they exchange texts all the time about stupid, non-supernatural stuff. Just last week they saw some arty-farty indie film that they both hated.So what if Stiles has a tiny, minuscule crush on the guy? It's not worth rocking the boat over.





	like a flower bending in the breeze (you have a way with me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drowningmermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drowningmermaid/gifts).



> Hi love, I hope you like this and that it somewhat addresses your prompt! xo
> 
> Written for the prompt:
> 
> "Derek and stiles caught dry humping in kitchen by the sheriff"

Stiles peers down at the shopping list in his hand, sloppily written in blue pen on the back of an envelope. He had hastily scrawled the items down in a rush, belatedly on his way out the front door having fallen asleep at his desk working on a summer assignment. Luckily, there aren’t many things so it shouldn’t take too long to grab and buy everything before heading back home, he thinks.

Pushing the shopping cart with one hand and clutching his list with the other Stiles roams through the aisles, grabbing various items as he goes along. He doesn’t need a lot of non-perishables but he still takes whatever comes to mind. Once he’s crossed a few things off his list and acquired an unholy quantity of Reeses and red licorice he goes to the perishable items next.

It’s his dad's fiftieth birthday today. Stiles, being the ever-amazing son that he is, cooked him a veritable spread for breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, bagels, sautéed mushrooms, the whole lot. Don’t get him wrong, it’s definitely back to whole grain and spinach tomorrow - but he figures that out of all the days, today is the one where he can cut his dad some slack and provide him with some greasy happiness.

Ensuring his dad’s happiness is exactly why he finds himself at the grocery store at three in the afternoon on a Sunday, shaking multiple punnets of strawberries like macarenas to find the best batch. John is having a few guests over that evening for a quiet birthday barbecue dinner. It was Stiles idea. He knows his dad is humble and would pass the night easily with a beer and frozen pizza but Stiles wanted to do something a little, y’know, nicer for the milestone. Fifty, the big _five-oh_ , was a pretty big deal and he was glad, given their lifestyle, that his dad was around to see it. After everything the man had been through it was no problem to invite around a few of his dads friends and colleagues over for dinner and a round of beers.

It was nothing grand and his dad would be coming home later to help set-up and cook but until then it was all Stiles and his stellar prowess in the kitchen. If he’d had the budget, Stiles would have sent his dad on a trip to the Bahamas or Fiji or something. As it were, he’d given John a few pairs of socks, some nice shirts and a hug.

Weaving through the stacks of fruit and vegetables and grabbing what he needs, his cart slowly fills up. He’s got all his dad's favorites, from the weird lemonade to the gourmet meat. He knows Scott and Derek will be there too so he’d grabbed a few of their favorites too. He tries not to think of the way that Derek’s eyes will light up and his ears go pink at the gesture, like he does any time that someone does something nice for him. He’s such a dork, seriously. Stiles has made it part his five-year life plan to get Derek to stop looking surprised at kind gestures because it’s so bad for Stiles heart.

Speaking about things that are bad for heart, however delicious, he makes his way to the delicatessen at the back of the store, zipping up his hoodie when the refrigeration gives him goosebumps. There are a small cluster of people, each with their own shopping lists crumpled in their hands, looking thoughtfully at the food beyond the protective glass. He takes a ticket and waits for his number to be called, tapping his foot somewhat restlessly on the linoleum after a few minutes. He looks around at the other customers, about another five waiting more or less patiently for their turn. There’s only one guy working and he’s been stuck with old Mr Tillerson who seems to want his items to the ounce he specified _exactly_.

Stiles tried working in customer service once. He lasted a whole three days before he told a customer to shut up and get some real problems and was promptly fired. Good times.

His eyes fall to a short, elderly lady beside him, her grey hair curling out under a colorful silk head scarf that’s tied neatly under her chin. It isn’t until he properly assesses her profile that he snaps his head forward and thinks, _abort, abort_ and wills the universe to do him this one favor and make him invisible. Like an animal hiding from a predator, he holds his breath and tries to stay as still as possible. It seems to not work when a moment later he hears an exuberant:

“Mieczysław!”

Goddamn. Plastering a shocked expression over his face, he turns to the woman and - with what he hopes sounds like astonishment - gasps: “Mrs Kowalska! What a complete and total surprise - I definitely did not see you there!”

Before he can get another incredulous word out his cheeks are being cupped and pinched by two wrinkled hands. “Look at you, little Mieczysław,” she grins, patting down past his face to his shoulders, “all big and _muskularny_.”

Agata “Aggie” Kowalska is a prominent member of the Beacon Hills Polish community and the owner of a very spoiled corgi that Scott _loves_. Stiles knows her best from all the times he visited his grandmother as a kid. They’d met through the Orthodox Church after his grandmother had moved to Northern California and they’d been friends since, up until his grandmother passed two years ago. On the weekends and holidays that he’d spend at his grandmother's house, eating baked goods and reading books, Aggie was almost always there, sitting on the porch or in the living room, talking animatedly with his old nan over tea. She spoke at length about her grandkids and the problems of their generation, all the while helping in the kitchen and folding laundry.

She didn’t have much patience for fools though, and Stiles was the type of kid who’d try and ram his whole fist up his nostrils to see if it’d fit. It didn’t and she was there to witness the attempt.

“How are you? You still go to school?” She asks, looking up at him from a foot down.

“Yeah,” he says, scratching his nose. “Down at Berkley.”

“Good,” she nods, “good. Boys your age need an education. You looking after your father?”

It’s around this time that he starts to feel a little warm and unzips his hoodie, eyes glancing to the number currently being attended to at the deli. He’s still four people behind.

“Yes, Ms Kowalska -”

“Good! So you ought to! He worked hard to raise you, your father. You take him and you come to my place for tea this weekend. We’ll have _Kaszanka_.”

Oh god, Stiles thinks, desperately looking up in hopes his number is to be called next despite only a minute passing and nope, not even close. He gapes dumbly for a second, searching his mind for a possible excuse.

“Well, you see, about that - ”

She interrupts him, clutching his left hand with both of hers, “You remember my granddaughter, Lily? You two always got along.”

“Uh, sure,” he replies weakly, crushing his shopping list in his fist. He’s not sure _got along_ is quite accurate - up until she was fourteen Lily used to give Stiles wet willies and call him Stinky Stilinski.

“She is back for the summer too! She broke up with that rotten boyfriend of hers, _dzięki ci, Boże_.”

Oh no.

“What about you Mieczysław? Are you single?”

“No! Definitely not,” he lies, heart pounding and palms beginning to sweat. “Totally committed here. Yep.” He swings his head around back towards the aisles, trying to find his escape amongst the shoppers and the dry goods. Screw this, the camembert and prosciutto can buy itself.

“Oh? Well don’t be shy, what’s her name?”

Before he can stutter the name of a suitable fake life partner he spots a familiar strong build and head of black hair browsing the aisles in the near distance. He raises onto his tip-toes and throws his arm up. “Derek!” he yells a little desperately, waving his arm when the man looks over to him. _C’mon_ he thinks, willing Derek with his mind to get the hint and make his away over and save him from this conversation. Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long, Derek is walking towards them, green shopping basket in his grip.

Derek reaches the pair and appears to open his mouth to say something before Aggies cuts him off. “Derek, you said? This is your boyfriend?”

Derek's eyebrows rise comically, swinging his head to Stiles who winces apologetically.

“Derek, this is Aggie,” Stiles explains. “She was just telling me all about her very single and available granddaughter when I just happened to mention my very not single status. Which you know all about, of course.”

“...Because I’m your boyfriend?” Derek asks slowly and Stiles wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Exactly.”

They engage in a silent war of words, an eyebrow wriggling stare-off before Derek rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “We’re madly in love,” he drawls, slinging his free arm around Stiles shoulders and flushing their sides together. “Right, sweetcheeks?”

Despite his best efforts Stiles still flushes slightly and coughs to cover the laughter bubbling up his throat. “We sure are, honeybear,” he says, winding an arm around Derek's waist.

“56!” Yells the butcher from behind the counter.

“Oh thats me,” Aggie says quickly, adjusting the strap of the handbag resting on her forearm. “It was nice speaking with you both, we will catch up soon!”

They smile cheesily and disentangle themselves once Aggie has completed her purchases and waved them goodbye again. Stiles smiles at Derek sheepily. “Thanks for the save, dude. Sorry to drag you into that, but my virtue is ever grateful.”

Derek gives Stiles a light shove and messes up his hair, ignoring Stiles’ indignant squawk. “You’re hopeless. Get me some olives when your number is called and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal.”

Once they’re done at the deli they amble along the store together to grab some last bits and pieces. “That all for the party tonight?” Derek peers into Stiles cart.

“Yeah, you’re coming right?”

Derek lifts up his basket, exhibiting copious amounts of beer and chips. “I’ll make an appearance,” he assures, placing his hand on the small of Stiles back to gently guide him out of the way of a small child that races out from one of the aisles.

“You better,” Stiles replies, grabbing a packet of disposable napkins. “or you’ll break my dad's heart.”

“Just your dad's?”

So the thing is, okay, that Stiles and Derek are kind of pretty good friends now. They watch baseball together, talk about their lives (and their friends) over take-out, they exchange texts all the time about stupid, non-supernatural stuff. Just last week they saw some arty-farty indie film that they both hated and went on a long drive afterwards, lamenting the waste of money on the ticket price. They’ve even talked seriously about starting a business together once Stiles is out of college. Honestly, if you’d ever told a sixteen-year-old Stiles that he would start planning a private supernatural consultant agency with Derek Hale he would have cried laughing.

He’s not really sure when things changed exactly, except that it must have been gradual. There was a lot going on in those earlier years and Stiles doesn’t know even now if he will ever get to untangle and unpack all of it, if he will ever be able to sort out which parts were growing up and which parts were survival techniques. Or if there is even a difference with him. He knows he grew apart from many people he’d been close to then and became a lot closer to some that that had been distant.

Derek was certainly one of the latter, literally and figuratively speaking. The absence of constant loss and danger had given them room to grow and to smooth themselves out into more grounded people. Their exchanges became less about the inherent fear and violence of their lives and more about the little things. Slowly but surely, Stiles knew beyond any doubt that he could rely on Derek to understand him - not just about the traumas and big life decisions - but about what makes him laugh and the music they play in their drives, windows down and wind weaving around their fingers. He became the guy Stiles would talk to about life after death over beer and his first contact when he needs to vent. Derek started as the guy that Stiles could not let die - now he was the guy that Stiles would deeply struggle to live without.  

And sure, Derek is insanely attractive too. Beautiful, really - any idiot with eyes could tell you that. The guy is the whole package, smart and gorgeous and sarcastic, Stiles can’t help but have a little crush. Or a big crush. Okay, so like, maybe he’s really into the guy and it’s a little devastating but he doesn’t want to ruin this good thing they’ve got by being a blabbermouth. It’s not like Derek feels the same way about him anyway. It’s fine, he’ll take just being friends, honestly - after everything they’ve been through just to be alive is enough.

“Natalie’s heart too,” Stiles adds. “You know she likes to watch you lift heavy stuff. Wanna come over beforehand to help set up?”

“Sure, I’ll follow you there.”

“You’re a good man, Balto.”

Derek just rolls his eyes and leads them to a register. With the smaller volume of items, Derek begins to unload his items first. Stiles eyes the alcohol as it’s placed on the conveyor belt and makes a face when he notices the brand.

“ _Lulu_? Really? Why, Derek?”

Derek just taps the case gently and smiles smugly. “Because I like it.”

“I don’t,” Stiles complains as it’s scanned in by the cashier. “It tastes like carbonated dish water.”

“You like Michael Bublé,” Derek accuses, helping Stiles add his items from the cart onto the belt, “your opinion on taste is forever null and void.”

Stiles mouth drops and he splutters, “You leave him out of this!” He lowers his voice to a hiss, “You can’t even get buzzed on beer without wolfsbane.”

Derek taps his chin. “You’re right, Stiles. Where on earth would I find wolfsbane in this town. It’s just….so rare and hard to find.”

“Whatever, heathen. Enjoy your nasty poison puddle water.”

“I will, thanks.” The corners of Derek’s mouth are pulled up just a little, and for a few moments the only sounds between them are the white noise of busy shoppers and the sharp shrill of the scanner. Derek seems to begin to say something when he looks over to Stiles and suddenly fixes his gaze on Stiles face.

“Hey dumbass, don’t move.

Dread prickling at his stomach Stiles flinches and gives his body a once over, is he in danger? Is there a spider? “What’s - “

“I said _don’t move_ ,” Derek says, hand outstretched towards Stiles face, a look of intense concentration setting his mouth into a straight line. Stiles heart beats fast and thunderous in his chest when Derek grips his chin with one hand and moves his entire body closer, the distance between their faces decreasing to mere inches.

Stiles feels his hands go numb and his cheeks grow warm under the attention of Derek's green, intense gaze. “Wh-what -”

“There,” Derek says quietly, brushing Stiles cheek gently with his free hand. His fingers stroke down the side of Stiles face for a moment before he steps back. “You had an eyelash.”

“Oh,” Stiles mumbles as he takes a step back, his face still hot and his skin tingling where the man touched him. “Um, thanks.”

“I mistook it as some of your patchy facial hair at first.”

“Don’t be rude,” Stiles scowls, banging his cart into Derek's’ jean clad butt as his heart rate comes back to earth, “we can’t all be half woolly mammoth.”

Later, when Stiles is alone in his car driving towards home he berates himself for acting like such a loser. Of course Derek was just helping him out - it’s just what Derek does! He helps old ladies cross the street, donates money to homeless shelters, brushes away stray eyelashes off of his friends bright red faces! It’s not like he was going to kiss Stiles or anything. Or that Stiles would even want that. It would probably be awful, really. The kiss would be prickly from Derek’s beard and his bunny teeth would be in the way and their noses are so different, they could never really fit together. Stiles’ is all bulbous and weird shaped whereas Derek’s is narrow and symmetrical. It’s for the best that they never kiss, yeah. Totally.

He’s tracing the slope of his own upturned nose when he pulls up to his driveway, thinking of what it would be like to stroke down the bridge of Derek's sharp nose with his fingertips. How the skin would feel, the feel of ungiving bone underneath. He snaps himself out of his musings when he hears Derek’s car pull up behind him. Together they bring in all the food and put away all they don't need now and unpacking all that they do.

“Did you know that the earliest records of rhinoplasty dates as far back as 800 BC in ancient India?”

“I do now,” Derek mumbles into the fridge where he’s shelving away the alcohol and soda. “Please don’t get a nose job, Stiles.”

“Like I could afford to even if I wanted one. Does plastic surgery even work for werewolves?” Stiles ponders loudly, taking out chopping boards and mixing bowls from their cupboard storage. “Could any of you even get a nose or a boob job if you wanted to with your healing abilities?”

“Not that I am aware of, but I haven’t made a habit of asking anyone either.”

“Huh, interesting. I mean, not that any of you need it anyway, you’re all like, supernaturally smokin’ and shit.”

“All of us?” Derek asks, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter and smirking

“Except you,” Stiles sniffs, turning away to hide his smile. “Apparently not even surgery can fix your face.”

“Dick,” Derek snorts, throwing a grape at Stiles’ head and popping another into his mouth. “So, what are you making?”

“ _We_ ,” Stiles emphasizes, pointing to the food as he lists them off, “are making burgers from scratch, fruit salad, also _actual_ salad and an antipasto platter. Dad should be getting home later so he can set the grill up.”

“Cool,” Derek says, coming over to Stiles side and appraising the mess of ingredients spread over the kitchen bench. “Where do I start?”

Derek is placed on all of the gross jobs like dicing the onions and handling the raw meat. It’s gross for Stiles okay? It’s all bloody and veiny and Derek’s a wolf, he can handle it, he probably actually likes getting the blood juice all over his hands. Stiles has delegated himself to chopping the fruit and all of the other important crap like freeing paper plates from their plastic packaging.

“Which would you rather,” Stiles begins while he is cubing a block of cheddar. He ignores Derek’s quiet groan and continues. “Not being able to leave the country ever again or leaving the country and never being allowed back in?”

“Never being allowed back in,” Derek says quickly, knife noisily tapping the wooden board as he chops up parsley.

“Ouch,” Stiles mutters.

“What?”

“What about me? You couldn’t see me if you weren’t allowed back in.”

“You could just visit whatever country I have to relocate to.”

“ _Pass_ , not worth the airfare.” Stiles scoffs, moving on to arrange the cured meats. “Okay next question -”

“It’s my turn,” Derek grumbles, picking up the chopped parsley and getting hands deep in the mince mixture for the burgers.

“Ugh, fine bossypants.”

“Would you rather... have toenails for teeth or have taste buds on your feet?”

Stiles tosses his head back and laughs. “Gross, dude. That’s hard though. Probably toenails for teeth, I can at least get dentures.”

“I’ll pay for your dentures if you visit me in exile.”

“Fine, it’s a deal. Okay, now me - would you rather have a dick that has kanima scales when it’s erect _or_ constantly self-lubricate from your butt.”

“Wow. Do I ejaculate kanima venom for the first one?” Derek asks, adding extra spices to the meat mix.

Stiles considers this, chewing on a grape thoughtfully. “Sure, why not.”

“Sounds inconvenient though.”

“Is mastabatory induced paralysis really as inconvenient as having a permanently leaking ass?”

“I don’t know. Why do we get into these conversations?”

“Because we’re great thinkers, Derek.”

Derek snorts and turns back to his task leaving Stiles to grin like an idiot down at the punnet of strawberries he unearthed from the shopping bags. He can’t help but feel warm and delightfully domestic while they’re alone in this big house together, working alongside each other in the kitchen, the smell of fresh food in the air. Even if they start their business and travel all over the country or the world together he always wants it to be like this - working as a pair, easy conversation and butterflies in his stomach making him feel like he’s floating.

He’s interrupted in his daydreaming when he hears the loud gurgling coming Derek’s stomach. He turns to stare curiously at the source of noise before he actually pinpoints it.

“I haven’t eaten lunch,” Derek explains, cheeks turning pink.

Stiles snickers at Derek’s embarrassment and knocks their shoulders together. “So eat then, idiot, there’s plenty here.”

Derek just raises his hands which are covered to the wrist in bits of pink, raw beef mince. “It’s fine, it can wait until we’re done.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Stiles chastises and picks up a cube of cheddar. “Turn towards me for a sec’.”

Derek does as he’s told with a questioning lift of his eyebrows and a put-upon sigh. It places them closer together than Stiles originally intended, but he ignores this as he takes he piece of camembert from the platter and raises the small cube of cheese to Derek's’ lips. He flushes at the implications when they quickly catch up to him, not quite meaning this to be anything other than platonic caring. Wow. He can’t believe he lied to himself for a whole five seconds that hand-feeding each other is just what bro’s do.

He’s not sure Derek buys it either if the quiet way he is appraising Stiles is any indication. Nonetheless, a moment passes and Derek opens his mouth enough to allow Stiles to feed him the cheese. He respectfully tries not to get his fingers past Derek's lips but the light sheen of cooling saliva on his fingertips tells him he didn’t quite succeed, he thinks, watching Derek chew slowly and then swallow. The guy doesn’t laugh or say anything about gay chickens or move away. In fact Derek doesn’t move an inch.

“M-more?” Stiles whispers in the space between them.

“Yeah, please,” Derek nods.

“Okay,” he half turns to grab a handful of small food items. When he turns back he raises a sun-dried tomato to Derek's’ lips he who accepts it the same way, lips lightly touching Stiles fingertips. His heart is pounding so loudly even to his own ears, it must be deafening to Derek’s. His mouth goes dry when he gently traces Derek's lips to chase any left over oil. He can’t be imagining the way Derek is looking at him, can he? What are they even doing?

“Here,” Stiles offers quietly, bringing a grape to Derek's mouth. This time, Stiles definitely feels Derek's tongue against his fingers, noticeably wet when he pulls them away. It makes his breath hitch and his toes curl in his sneakers, arousal coils hot in his lower stomach.

Derek watches him fumble with a wayward blueberry before that too, is consumed, tongue caressing Stiles skin, chasing the errant splatters of juice.

The second to last item in his hand is a large strawberry, perfectly unbruised and a deep red, too big for one mouthful. Indeed, Derek takes his time with this one, taking a small bite from the pointed end and working his way up. By the time he is done with it there is red juice running down Stiles’ trembling fingers in thin, sticky streams.

Stiles watches Derek’s eyes darken when he takes one of his own fingers into his mouth, suckling lightly to lap up some of the liquid. Derek steps closer and places his hands in the sink behind Stiles, the movement trapping Stiles against the counter and bringing their bodies flush together, faces just millimetres apart. His gaze is helplessly drawn the redness of Derek’s lips and he thinks, breathless, that there is no way he can be misinterpreting the hard line of Derek’s body pressing him into the bench.

Although new between them, the intimacy of it feels like warm raindrops falling in his chest, dripping down into the rest of his body, pooling in his feet. Stiles brings the last piece of food, a cube of watermelon and places in between his own lips, biting off half and offering the other to Derek. When the man swallows Stiles runs his still sticky fingers over Derek’s lips, stilling them only when Derek nips on them playfully.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, raising his chin and brushing their noses together. He doesn’t know what he was so worried about before, the slide of skin and the fit feels perfect. “Do you…?”

“Yeah,” Derek croaks, tilting his head to bring their lips close together. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes and closes the gap, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that tastes like fruit juice. He wraps his long arms around Derek’s waist and spreads his legs a little to invite Derek further into his space. The man wastes no time in taking up the room, pressing Stiles further into the counter, the metal lip of the sink digging into his lower back.

He groans when Derek slips his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, sliding it against his own. The bristles of Derek's’ beard against his face makes his skin tingle and his head swim with arousal. The insistent press of Derek’s lips against his own, chasing one another as they catch their breath, feels incredible.

They press their foreheads together and take a long moment to breathe in the shared, fevered air before pressing short, hard kisses to each others mouths in quick succession. With a satisfied hum, Stiles kisses a line from Derek's mouth to the hinge of his jaw, flickers his tongue over the hair and hot skin. Derek apparently seems to like that because it makes his breath quicken and his hips twitch and he brings their faces together again, sliding their noses together before kissing Stiles softly.

Stiles smiles to himself before the table are turned and Derek is leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down Stiles neck, sucking the skin lightly. A strangled moan escapes his throat when the sensitive skin is prickled by Derek’s beard and he digs his fingers into Derek’s lower back, hands finding warm skin under Derek’s shirt. He slips a hand to rest inside the waistband of Derek’s jeans, just brushing above the swell of his ass. In turn, the man presses their clothed groins together and starts rutting lightly, hips giving these tiny jerks against Stiles’.

“Fuck,” Stiles groans and they’re kissing again. At this point they haven’t done much but he is painfully hard in the confines of his pants, his own hips stuttering up to grind his dick against Derek's, his lower lip caught between Derek’s teeth.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes against his lips, opening and locking his eyes with Stiles’.

“ _Derek_.”

“John,” comes an amused voice from the entrance of the kitchen.

Stiles bumps his cheek against Derek's chin when he whips his head around to locate the intruder. His father is standing with his hands on his hips, still in uniform, a terrible, awful grin on his lined face. Stiles discreetly extracts his fingers from where they were teasing the top of Derek’s crack but keeps his hands gently on Derek's’ waist, willing him not to move and reveal Stiles boner to his dad. Oh god, wow this is embarrassing. Derek seems to have the same idea though, his face red and pointed up to stare at the ceiling.

“Happy birthday, John,” Derek says casually, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

“Thanks, Derek. Happy birthday to me indeed.”

“Surprise?” Stiles tries.

“Shucks, you shouldn’t have,” John says sarcastically. “You look a little overheated. Why don’t you boys go wash up?”

Stiles is pretty sure he could fry an egg on his face at this point, the mortification of being caught in the act by his dad rapidly tampering down his arousal. He tells Derek he’ll follow him to the downstairs bathroom in a minute and points a finger at his dad once it’s just them in the kitchen.

“Not a word,” Stiles warns. “Say nothing.”

“What?” John asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Sure,” Stiles says suspiciously moving past him to get to the hallway. He’s just brushed his shoulder before his dad speaks.

“I was _just_ going to say this explains the dumbass, dopey expression you have on your face when Derek is around.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, cheeks flaming again. He moves quickly to get a healthy distance from his teasing father and makes his way to the downstairs bathroom where Derek is already hiding out. The man in question is drying his now clean hands on a hand towel when Stiles crowds him in, closing the door behind them to give them the semblance of privacy.

He makes quick work out of washing his hands with the gross, floral guest hand soap, lathering it down to his wrists to try and get off all of the sticky leftover juice that has begun matting his arm hair. “So that happened,” Stiles remarks awkwardly into the suds, turning the cold water tap on to rinse them off. Derek doesn’t reply and silence rests like a heavy cloud around them. “A real life _right in front of my salad_ moment.”

“You’re nervous,” Derek states quietly from behind him.

“No shit I’m nervous, thank you,” Stiles mutters, wiping his hands roughly on his jeans.

“Why?”

“Because?” He tries, turning around to face Derek who doesn’t appear to be moved. He sighs. “Just...I’ve been trying so hard not to fuck up what we have, y’know?”

Derek furrows his brow and nudges Stiles feet with his own. “You haven’t fucked anything up.”

“Are you sure about that? Like, really? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure this changes everything, now that you know how fucking hopelessly into you I am - ”

“Stiles.”

“- because it’s like a _lot_ okay, it’s actually pathetic. And yeah, I’m sure we can try to just be friends if this was all just a heat of the moment thing, don’t get me wrong it will be awkward as fuck -”

“ _Stiles_ -”

“ - but I don’t want to know that you might not want me the way that I want you, like, at least I could pretend before and it was fine -”

“Hey,” Derek hushes, crowding Stiles against the counter, cupping his face with his hands. “Relax, take a breath.”

He does. “I just -,” Stiles whispers to the ground, resting his hands on the basin behind him and leaning on it, “I just want to be around you. With you.”

Derek smiles small and private. “I want that too. Do you want this?” He asks, stroking his thumbs down Stiles cheeks. Stiles bites his lip and nods, resting his hands on Derek's forearms.

“Yeah,” he says. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So…”

“So... you wanna give this thing a shot?”

“Okay,” he whispers, smiling.

“Okay,” Derek repeats. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

He does.

\----------

Later that evening after everything has been set up, the extra tables and chairs, the food has finished cooking and preparing, the house has been cleaned within an inch of its life. The guests have begun arriving, handing off gifts to Stiles’ dad and bringing in more alcohol and good humour. The backyard is alive with laughter and anecdotes while Derek has been faithfully manning the grill, Stiles running around madly to ensure everyone has a cold drink.

The summer weather means it’s still warm out when the sun begins to lower in the sky, casting it’s orange glow over the trees. It’s at this time that Scott and Melissa arrive with the birthday cake, hugging the sheriff and wishing him a happy birthday. Scott takes just one look in Stiles direction and sniffs the air before a sly grin spreads over his face. The werewolf makes a circle out of the forefinger and thumb of one hand and penetrates the circle crudely with the forefinger of his other hand.

Stiles winks and gives him two thumbs up.

“You two are the worst,” Derek grumbles, taking a seat beside Stiles on the grass and passing him a slice of cake. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Your face is the worst.”

“Please, you like my face.”

“Yeah but according to you my opinion on taste is null and void.”

Derek hides his smile in a mouthful of cake and Stiles can’t help but place a kiss the dimple that appears on the man’s cheek. With their sides pressed together, surrounded by friends and family, Stiles feels safety like a warm blanket over his body. He sighs, content. Yeah, he can’t wait for their tomorrow.


End file.
